


Light Me Up

by Beguile



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Bloodplay, Dominance/submission, Edging, Kissing, M/M, Matt is a Bratty Sub, Praise Kink, Rough Sex, Smut, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 13:20:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13008663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: Frank kisses him so hard that the cuts on their lips break and they’re bleeding into each other’s teeth.





	Light Me Up

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters and concepts in this story are the property of Marvel and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.
> 
> Warnings: rough sex, barebacking, blood play
> 
> Wherever possible in this fic, I have provided opportunities for characters to demonstrate respect and enthusiastic consent for the proceedings. Nevertheless, Frank and Matt are violent characters in a violent universe, and ultimately, I strive to write characters more than concepts. 
> 
> I should mention here that this is the second ever smut-fic I have ever written. A huge thanks to those who read this first; I wouldn't have the nerve to write this - let alone post it - otherwise.
> 
> I wrote this as a sexy, smutty alternative scene for an installment of my WIP [_It Takes a Village_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6961093/chapters/15870307). If you have read that, welcome! The main fic is going to remain Gen, but hopefully this little snippet entertains you. 
> 
> If you haven’t read that, fear not! All you really need to know is: 
> 
> \- Matt’s leg is broken (hence the cast)  
> \- They’re in the bathroom of Frank’s run-down, trashed apartment  
> \- Matt and Frank have just had a fight (that Matt won)
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

Light Me Up 

            Frank grips Red by the back of the head, pulls him close, and takes a bite of his lips. Red reacts by turning the motion into a kiss. Then he’s tugging at the hem of Frank’s shirt and Frank’s already two steps ahead of him. He’s already got the thing over his head. He quickly shuffles Red back until the smaller man is against the wall. Then Frank grabs him by the backs of his thighs and lifts him up, and before Red can use any of his ninja shit, Frank presses him into the brick.

            He gets the choirboy’s shirt off. Starts nipping and tearing at the fresh bruises and cuts, the little marks he left that he wants written there, permanent. The shit he wants scarred and burned into Red’s skin. He wants Red branded for life from all the ways Frank knows how to hurt him.

            Red grunts and moans, sidling his hips, trying to generate some friction between them; his thighs hard against Frank’s, sweats pulling over his groin. Frank shoves hand into Red’s hair and diverts his attention back to his mouth, his smart little fucking mouth, and Frank kisses him so hard that the cuts on their lips break and they’re bleeding into each other’s teeth and the sound Red makes – fuck, that sound that rides a knife’s edge between love and hate, between _come closer_ and _get the fuck away from me_ – Frank wants to rip that sound of him again and again and again.

            He’s got one hand on the broken leg and the other on his unbuckled jeans, shoving them down, when he hears Red gasping, “Frank. Frank.” And the series of groans that follows tells Frank everything, that they need a better position. Frank yanks Red away from the wall and carries him straight into the running shower; the water frigid against their skin. Frank’s adjusting the knobs when Red’s kissing him again, his nimble hips bucking and roving, and God damn it, the asshole’s trying to distract him, _and it’s working_. Frank fumbles with the taps, finally gets the water to a decent temperature, and gets Red’s back on the bottom of the tub, legs slung out on the edges.

            Frank tugs off the choirboy’s sweats. Well, from his right leg anyways. He leaves them hanging, sopping wet, on Red’s left knee over the cast. And Frank’s about to start in on the kid when Red’s kissing him again. Frank pushes him back, adjusts, and then crashes down on Red like a wave, water streaming over his back and arms and fingers. Falling around the fringes of the choirboy’s scarred arms and chest, halo-ing his perfect face. Frank breaks from the motion; Red chases, leaves Frank fumbling for the cupboard under the sink as he nips and licks and drags his blunt nails over Frank’s bruised chest.

            “Give me a second,” Frank growls, knowing full well he isn’t gonna get one. Knowing Red’s gonna keep grinding away with his mouth and his hands and his thighs, never once making this easy. Frank finds the dust-covered tub of Vaseline under there. Barely gets a finger full before Red’s really making a nuisance of himself. Then Frank kisses him nice and relaxed and distracted before slipping the tip of his finger into Red.

            Red starts, bucking back. Frank doesn’t let him escape. He bites at Red’s neck, hushing him, reassuring him – “I got you, I got you” – and Red breathes, focusing every fibre of his being towards that sensation rising through him. Frank thrusts in. Red writhes. Twists. Gasps. His skin wet and slick under Frank, around Frank, and then he’s whispering a litany of oh-Gods as he settles, his muscles relaxing, prompting Frank to put another finger inside him.

            Too dry, too fucking dry. But Red’s nodding, his eyes half-closed, mouth slightly agape, and he’s far too quiet for Frank’s liking.

            That’s when the fun starts. When Frank doesn’t give him a break, when it’s his fingers working, scissoring, stretching, and Red’s keeping up, keeping up, keeping up. Trying to anticipate, trying to figure out what his body’s going to do and failing because he’s – God, he’s fucking –

            Frank bites at him. Claws at him. Puts a third finger in and starts thrusting. Red’s eyes get serious, like he’s got it all figured out and Frank can do his worst ‘cuz this? He was fucking born for this. He was made for this. “Get inside me,” he snarls, and Frank snarls back, “I am inside you,” and Red struggles through the thrust-thrust-thrust to throw a punch and demand, “Get your dick inside me, Frank.”

Frank shoves his fingers in and holds them there. Red’s jaw snaps shut and his lips purse and his eyes water and his fists clench and his toes curl and Frank lets him sit there in taut rapture before, “Say please.”

            That smirk. Frank grabs Red by the jaw too late to miss the, “Make me.” And that’s when Frank spreads his fingers wide like he’s gonna claw out the kid’s insides, and Red is shaking, squirming, moaning,

            “Okay, okay!”

            Frank doesn’t let up. “Okay, what?”  
  
            “Okay, okay...”  
  
            “Can’t hear you, Red.”  
  
            Red falls silent. Shit. Frank stops. Gives the choirboy a second to breathe. Is pissed but unsurprised when that smirk comes back and, “Please.”

            Frank rips out his hand, drops his pants, hikes Red up by the hips, and shoves inside him so fucking fast. Fucks the breath right out of the choirboy’s chest, and stares down at his face, his gritted teeth and hard eyes: Frank just landed a blow but the battle ain’t over yet. 

            Frank draws his hands over Red’s thighs, over his hips, calming him down. Getting him back to soft, to open. The only blood Frank wants is the stuff he takes by force, the stuff he wins by conquest, not the rips and tears of two dumbasses going balls deep without lube. Doesn’t mean he lets the feel of it pass him by: Red’s insides wrapped around his outsides, sinew pulled taut and hard and aching until Red comes back down again, body melting into that silken softness. Then Frank hooks his arms under Red’s knees, pulls the choirboy close, and while the groan is still fresh and breaking from Red’s throat, Frank fucks him into the ceramic.

            Jesus, he’s limber. Red bends and folds to keep from smacking against the sides of the tub as Frank rides him. He shifts his pelvis and fucking – Frank can feel it, the way he suddenly melts, the relief in his moans, the way his thighs lock so that Frank can’t change course. He’s got Frank right where he wants him, driving into his prostate with every thrust.

            Frank grabs Red’s balls and tugs on them. Red yelps. His thighs loosen. “Quit cheating,” Frank snarls, releasing him. He finds a spot inside Red that’s not gonna make the choirboy finish so easily. “You come when I make you. Know that.”

            Red groans, face twisting in frustration. He drops back against the basin of the tub, trying to find purchase. Frank’s careful not to let him get anywhere, to keep him right where he wants him. Right _there_. Where every thrust feels like it’s gonna rip the devil in two but it never does, it never does. He holds, so good and steady, wrapped around Frank and under Frank and _shit shit shit_. Frank slows. Now he’s the one getting close. And hell if there’s not the makings of a smirk on Red’s face. The little shit can’t get what he wants, so he forces Frank to get what he wants.

            Frank wraps a hand around Red’s dick at the same time he lands a blow to the choirboy’s prostate, earning a very loud, very surprised groan. Red wasn’t expecting that. His hands scramble along the edges of the tub for purchase, the game very clearly over. He shoves himself against Frank, but he can’t keep up the momentum. Not for long. He ends up slamming into the basin of the tub, moaning, back arching. His voice coming out of his dry throat, “Oh, God…oh, God…”

            Frank leans down, works Red slow and deep. One hand on Red’s dick, the other under his head. Thumb running along Red’s jaw, over his bruised cheek, around his eye. That perfect fucking mouth of his. Frank kisses him, open-mouthed and sloppy, catching the rumblings of Red’s moans through his teeth and tongue. The choirboy breaks first, gasping for breath. Head twisting – panicked, on the edge, _so close_. “You hold on there, Red,” Frank slips his hand over Red’s hot scalp, through Red’s soaked hair. He doesn’t let up, doesn’t make it easier, just rides out the choirboy’s limits, rides out his own limits. “Stay with me.” He bends their heads together. “Stay with me. I got you. I got you.”  
  
            Red grabs him: one hand on the back of Frank’s neck, the other on Frank’s waist, and Frank stops with the gentle shit and gets back to the hard stuff. To the hard smack of skin against ceramic. To Red groaning, his thighs trembling from holding on, his hands cramping. The rhythmic cries and grunts, like he’s busting against chains every time Frank slams into him.

            “Fuck.” Frank’s whole body rumbles with the raw electric shock of seeing Red doubling back under him. “I say you’re not coming tonight, you wouldn’t, would you?”

            Red’s only answer is a long, low moan that could go either way. His body’s saying one thing; his brain’s saying another. Frank pumps him faster, earning a bigger groan in the process. “You’d let me ride you out like this. Keep you right here on the edge. You enjoy that, hero?”  
  
            No response. Red’s bent his head way back, Adam’s apple bobbing. Straining through the pressure welling up under Frank’s hand. No more _oh Gods_ , nothing but the breathless, ragged pull of air in his lungs. Desperate and needing.

            “Let’s see it, hero. Let’s…let’s see it. Fucking show me, Red. Show me what you’re made of.”  
  
            And with that the devil’s back, his teeth gritted. Eyes wild. Frank gives a wild cry of his own, doubling over as he comes. Climax jerks him around like a puppet. It’s been too long, too God damn long, and Red’s so fucking perfect. He takes everything Frank gives him, and he doesn’t break. The one person in the world who Frank hasn’t killed or gotten killed lying under him, chest heaving, tight and perfect and aching around Frank’s limpening dick. Frank kisses Red’s gaping mouth, breathing into the back of Red’s throat, along his jawline, through his hair. “God damn, you really are a hero, aren’t you?” One arm slings under Red’s lower back while his other hand slicks over Red’s dick until the kid’s trying to launch out of his own skin, trying to tear the fucking tub apart, trying to speed Frank up and slow Frank down. “So fucking good, Red. So fucking _good_.”

            That panicked sound starts coming out of Red’s throat again. His dick gets even harder, if that’s possible. Frank digs his fingers into one cheek of Red’s pert little ass. “You like that, huh, Red? You like being called good?”  
  
            “Frank –“

            “Like being called a hero?”  
  
            “I’m not –“  
  
            “Yeah, you are,” Frank says dismissively. “Let me show you how good you are, Red, hm?”  
  
            Red tosses his head. “I’m not…I’m not, I’m not…”  
  
            “You don’t think you deserve this?”  
  
            “Frank –“  
  
            “You want me to stop?”  
  
            “God damn it, Frank!” 

            “ _Do you want me to stop?”_

            “ _NO_!”

            Frank slows his hand, strokes Red long, gentle, _nice_. Puts Red on a whole different edge, where he knows something will happen but not what, not when. An edge where fighting isn’t the answer even if it’s his first and only instinct. And when Red’s a crumbling mess from the suspense, from the sensation; when Frank’s thumb has been balanced on the tip of his dick for what feels like forever, Frank breaks the tenuous silence to say, “There he is. There’s my good boy.” And before Red can fire back with some smartass remark, Frank jerks him off hard and fast, firing off round after round of _good, good, so good, so good. Don’t fight it, Red. Don’t fight it._ Somehow that lengthens it out. Red, ever contrary, is fighting it, and whether he intends to or not, he’s feeding Frank’s splay burn of praise, feeding the very things he wants to fight, proving the point even as he struggles against it.

             “I got you,” Frank says, and Red finally finishes: arching back, muscles straining, soaked and slick and glossy, before he flops down, dead weight. Aftershocks rattle through him. Frank gets his dick out before Red clamps down on his waist again. He washes his hand, stands up, exits the tub. Kicks off his soaked pants. The winter air nips against his wet skin, a welcome relief from all that heat, from all that warmth, from all that proximity. There’s the Frank from the tub and the Frank outside the tub, and he’s outside the tub.

            The darkness of the room swirls around him. Frank glances outside the window to the overcast sky, to the yellow lamplight. Snowflakes bluster in like sparks and embers and shrapnel. The world on fire rages on, and Frank can’t hear Red anymore.

            He finishes taping garbage bags over the window. Keep the cold out for the night. Then Frank turns back the way he came. Turns off the taps. Red’s lying on the bottom of the tub on his side, arm folded around his waist, tremors wrecking him. He groans when Frank help him up, groans when Frank wraps him in a towel, groans when Frank picks him up, but the way he presses his forehead into Frank’s neck is less a fight than the appearance of one.

            Frank closes the bathroom door behind them. Carries Red past his cot to the mattress by the kitchen. Gets him lying down on his side under a blanket before sidling up behind him, rubbing his shaking arms and back and neck; his hair, his shoulders, his hip. There’s some blood between his legs. Frank licks it off his fingertips before kissing Red on the nape of his neck, before dragging his teeth along the soft skin around Red’s earlobe.

            He wraps his arms around the kid’s chest, balling his hands into a fist over Red’s sternum. “I got you, Red,” Frank promises. “I got you.” 

* * *

 

Happy Reading!

 


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